Morning Commute
Posted by Ben Myers
There's a young man driving to work. There's a cup of stale coffee, a fragrance meant to exude masculinity, and a soft rock tune humming. There's a silver watch, a ball point pen, and a designer leather wallet. There's a briefcase, scattered paperwork, and a collection of the instruments required by his daily tasks. There's a crumpled paper bag jammed between the passenger seat and the door; it has an all too familiar Dunkin Donuts signature of the on-the-go lifestyle. Inside the bag, there's a partially eaten wheat bagel with a partially eaten perfectly yellow, perfectly aromatic, perfectly round, egg. There's a cell phone, two of them in fact; one for work, and the other for after work. There's leather upholstery, a wrinkly treated cow hide turned black death with seatbelts. And of course, there are disk brakes.
He punches the brakes with his foot. The drive is interrupted and his car idles aside an empty highway. There’s the rhythmic dance of windshield wipers and absolute serenity. The soft rock tune keeps humming.
There's something he knows not, because the commute will not allow for it. Massive manic confusion at first glance of natural instinct, an urgency dwells heavy on his quickened heart beat. The soft rock tune keeps humming.
There's the birth of noise. There's a static noise and pain in his throat.
He screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
(ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)ms.
He screams with his brothers charging the English in the Scottish highlands with farm tools. Imagine torture, inflicted suffering, pains beyond physical comprehension, dizzying doses of adrenaline purged from a warehouse surplus. Imagine a vocal release so complete that it's sexually satisfying. Imagine a fan being turned from low to high and being whisked away by the pace of its revolutions. Imagine a lone firecracker stinging the palm of your hand as it explodes, now imagine a stick of dynamite. The scream crescendos from silent release of air to a gurgling shriek of desperation in A-minor. His blood screams from his quadriceps to toes and shoulders to fingertips. Imagine self-inflicted ear-popping, eye-bloodening, wrenching of the vocal chords, clenching of the unopposable digits and sensual release of a bottled chasm withheld from society.
The duration of the scream is infinite, and fortunately, he's in the breakdown lane.
There's the incessant clicking of a turn signal. There's a young man driving to work.
He's laughing.
There's a young man driving to work. There's a cup of stale coffee, a fragrance meant to exude masculinity, and a soft rock tune humming. There's a silver watch, a ball point pen, and a designer leather wallet. There's a briefcase, scattered paperwork, and a collection of the instruments required by his daily tasks. There's a crumpled paper bag jammed between the passenger seat and the door; it has an all too familiar Dunkin Donuts signature of the on-the-go lifestyle. Inside the bag, there's a partially eaten wheat bagel with a partially eaten perfectly yellow, perfectly aromatic, perfectly round, egg. There's a cell phone, two of them in fact; one for work, and the other for after work. There's leather upholstery, a wrinkly treated cow hide turned black death with seatbelts. And of course, there are disk brakes.
He punches the brakes with his foot. The drive is interrupted and his car idles aside an empty highway. There’s the rhythmic dance of windshield wipers and absolute serenity. The soft rock tune keeps humming.
There's something he knows not, because the commute will not allow for it. Massive manic confusion at first glance of natural instinct, an urgency dwells heavy on his quickened heart beat. The soft rock tune keeps humming.
There's the birth of noise. There's a static noise and pain in his throat.
He screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
(ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)ms.
He screams with his brothers charging the English in the Scottish highlands with farm tools. Imagine torture, inflicted suffering, pains beyond physical comprehension, dizzying doses of adrenaline purged from a warehouse surplus. Imagine a vocal release so complete that it's sexually satisfying. Imagine a fan being turned from low to high and being whisked away by the pace of its revolutions. Imagine a lone firecracker stinging the palm of your hand as it explodes, now imagine a stick of dynamite. The scream crescendos from silent release of air to a gurgling shriek of desperation in A-minor. His blood screams from his quadriceps to toes and shoulders to fingertips. Imagine self-inflicted ear-popping, eye-bloodening, wrenching of the vocal chords, clenching of the unopposable digits and sensual release of a bottled chasm withheld from society.
The duration of the scream is infinite, and fortunately, he's in the breakdown lane.
There's the incessant clicking of a turn signal. There's a young man driving to work.
He's laughing.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Monday, May 29, 2006.
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10:04 PM
Rt. 3 huh? Well-fucking-done description.